


The Adventure Of The Reigate Squires (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [51]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Embarrassed Dean, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, LARPing, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 14:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10743951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock and John travel to Surrey, the wrong person dies, and the doctor end up in some odd clothes. Plus there is a very horrible photograph, which some annoying blue-eyed genius displays prominently no matter how much someone pou... scowls.





	The Adventure Of The Reigate Squires (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomskittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomskittles/gifts).



> Previously published as 'The Reigate Puzzle'.

Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, and I truly valued that friendship.

And I understood that friendship sometimes demands sacrifices. 

But if he insisted on keeping That Photograph out on public display, he was going to end up investigating his own murder - from his own bloody grave! 

And no, nor did I welcome his suggestion that this story be titled 'Death by Knight'. Sometimes I really wondered what I saw in him.

Only sometimes, though.

+~+~+

It was a month since our return from Westmorland, and it had been one of ups and downs. Although I knew that, by any standards, Sherlock's 'solution' of the Easington case – allowing Doctor Oughtred Easington to return to India, despite his having killed two men – was the best one all round, I still felt that allowing a murdering doctor to go free was wrong on some level. And there was also the ongoing unease I felt over the Boys' Home, which Sherlock had been funding without telling me. I knew that, logically, there was no reason why he should have shared such a financial detail with the man who lodged with him, and that my annoyance had no basis in reason, but that did not make it go away. Nor could I raise the matter with him; he would just give me that 'kicked puppy' expression of his, and I would fold faster than a deck-chair in a tornado.

Ironically, it was an attempt by Sherlock's obnoxious lounge-lizard of a brother to exploit my unease which brought it to an end. Mr. Bacchus Holmes had made no secret of his low regard for my role in his brother's life, and I in return rated him as worth marginally less than the dust in 221B's hall carpet. One day in late February he called round whilst I was there and, in what I quickly realized was a contrived conversation, just 'happened' to mention three other charities that Sherlock was supporting in the area, one of which I myself worked at sometimes for free (and he must surely have known that). 

“What is your point, Bacchus?” Sherlock sighed. I could see that even his patience, wrought by many years of wittering clients, was beginning to reach its limit.

“Mycroft, Ranulph and I do not think it appropriate that you continue to live this life with your 'wife' of a doctor”, he said dryly.

I was sure that Sherlock's expression did not change, but in the same way that one can sense the impending eruption of a volcano, I knew that his brother had not just overstepped the mark, he had charged across it on horseback and was still going.

“You will leave”, Sherlock said quietly, standing up and crossing to his desk. “Goodbye, Bacchus.”

“Sher, I really think....”

Ah. That must have been the point when he realized that his brother had extracted his gun from his desk, and was checking it over. Our visitor went an interesting shade of white.

“You would not...”

The shot rang out, and Mr. Bacchus Holmes jumped violently. He made the door with an impressive speed before turning to face his brother.

“You shot at me!” he said accusingly.

“That was a blank”, Sherlock said coldly. “The other five... are not.”

He levelled his gun, but his brother was gone.

+~+~+

Looking back, I was sure the fact that someone got a double ration of bacon at breakfast the following day was not a coincidence. And the upside of the whole thing was that Mr. Bacchus Holmes' blatant attempt to divide us meant that I felt much closer to my friend.

+~+~+

“It seems that I shall have to travel to the fair county of Surrey”, Sherlock observed over breakfast one morning about a week later. There had been no sign of his annoying brother of late, although I he had told me that his mother had learnt of what had happened and had been Annoyed with his elder brother. I wondered how hard she had hit him (hopefully, very).

“Where in Surrey?” I asked.

“The fair town of Reigate”, he said. “Constable Henriksen requests my presence in a case.”

“Constable Henriksen?” I asked, confused. “Has he been demoted, as well as sent to the country?”

“No”, Sherlock said. “Constable Valiant Henriksen – I know, I know – and he is our friend Victor's nephew. Victor's brother Vincent is also a policeman who lives and works in the county town, Guildford, and his son has followed the family tradition of service. Victor's father was a Mr. Viscount Henriksen, and he started the family tradition of naming his offspring with names starting with the twenty-second letter of the alphabet.”

“Have you ever met this 'Valiant' young man before?” I asked.

“Only once”, Sherlock said. “Victor brought him round just before his eighteenth birthday. The lad looks little like his uncle, but he is as sharp as a knife, although I fear that country prejudices may harm his long-term career prospects. I am quite surprised that this case has not reached the London press, although this mining disaster in the Rhondda Valleys is quite rightly still dominating the papers.”

That our relationship was not quite back to normal had been showed by the small argument that we had contrived to have over the mining disaster the day before. There was, as expected, a Fund for the victims' families and dependents, and I had written a cheque for a contribution. So had Sherlock his, of course, being far larger than mine. I had not sulked or pouted, I was sure, but somehow I had still ended up getting a lecture about each giving what they could afford, complete with Biblical quotes.

“What is the case?” I asked, curious but still feeling a little cross with him. It was irrational, but then human pride often is.

“It looks simple on the surface”, he said. “It revolves around the commemorations this year to mark the meeting of the barons in the town prior to their forcing King John to sign Magna Carta. The history is questionable, but the results of their marking it are most definitely not. There was a full-sized medieval tournament arranged, with local lords dressed up as knights, and of course a banquet.”

“I see”, I said. “What happened?”

“At the banquet, each group of three knights was served by their own personal squires”, Sherlock explained. “In one tent, the three 'knights' – all local men of some import - were Mr. Rawlinson, a local businessman, Mr. Fisher, who owns several farms in the area, and Lord Abinger, who owns the single largest estate to the west of the town. They were served at their table by their squires, Rawlinson's eldest son Joshua, Fisher's nephew Albert Tague, and Lord Abinger's second son, Micah. After dinner they went out to watch a torch-lit mini-tournament, and after approximately ten minutes Lord Abinger suddenly collapsed. He died on his way to the hospital.”

“Cause of death?” I asked.

“It was initially thought that he had collapsed due to his insisting on wearing a heavy medieval uniform”, Sherlock said. “He was not a fit man. But a _post mortem_ established that he had definitely been poisoned, and only a few hours before his death. Clearly the only meal that he had had was the one served by his squire and his squire's friends, so that would seem to be where the poison must have come from. Furthermore, there were traces of poison on his hands.”

“That should have narrowed things down”, I said. Sherlock shook his head.

“It was a medieval banquet”, he reminded me. “They ate all the foods with their hands. The interesting thing is that whilst the food for their table was kept separate from everyone else's tables, no-one would have been able to ensure precisely which of the three 'knights' ate what. It all appears to be a very hit-and-miss way of committing murder.”

“Tell me about the three knights and squires”, I said, interested.

“Mr. Jacob Rawlinson is a successful fish merchant”, Sherlock said, “who has just opened up a second shop in nearby Redhill. He was known to be on poor terms with his son and heir Joshua, whose wild behaviour had led his father to threaten to disinherit him on more than one occasion. Rawlinson has three other sons, two of whom are married and one with a son of his own, so it is not as if there is no alternative.”

“Motive, but no dead body”, I said.

“Mr. Thomas Fisher is, perhaps surprisingly, the richest of the three. Astute purchasing of farmland close to the town has enabled him to sell it on as building land for a sizeable profit. He is not well-liked, and has the reputation of being a harsh landlord to his tenants, as well as being reluctant to maintain his houses to a decent standard. He is the only unmarried 'knight', and his nephew Albert Tague had recently moved down from London, and is widely regarded as a potential heir. They seemingly get on well together; it may be a factor that young Tague stands to inherit money anyway, as his father, a Mr. Burstow, is rich in his own right. Tague and Rawlinson Junior both attend the same school in town.”

“Tague's father is a Mr. Burstow?” I asked, confused.

“Mr. Charles Burstow was born Charles Tague”, Sherlock explained, “but was one of two brothers to share in a large inheritance from a great-uncle who was a Burstow. Changing his name was a condition of the inheritance. Mr. Burstow/Tague married Miss Edith Fisher, Mr. Fisher's sister. Albert Tague recently turned eighteen, so cannot change his own name to qualify for that inheritance - if he so wishes, of course - for another three years. His brother, Alfred Tague, is married and lives up in Scotland. East Lothian, I think.”

“Oh”, I said. “And Mr. Micah Abinger?” 

“He attends Christ's Hospital”, Sherlock said, “but was summoned home for this event. It was only one day, and Lord Abinger had made a generous donation to the school when they originally decided to accept his son – after, not before, I hasten to add - so they did not object. Young Abinger is very much the dutiful son when his father is around, but Constable Henriksen writes that he is somewhat different when amongst his peers. And his cups.”

“Motive _and_ a dead body”, I said. “He will inherit the estate.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You forget, he is the second son”, he said. “His older brother Nahum is the new Lord Abinger, and though Micah does get the subsidiary title of Lord Ifield, there are no lands or money to go with it. And his brother, who is some six years his senior, is already married with two young sons of his own.”

“It looks like the wrong 'knight' died, then”, I observed.

My friend looked at me curiously.

“Indeed”, he said, and I had the distinct impression that he had wanted to say something else before he went on, “I shall be travelling down to Reigate this Friday afternoon. Would you be able to accompany me?”

“Of course”, I smiled.

I had no idea at that time just how potentially humiliating this case would end up being. For me personally.

+~+~+

It was Friday, the first day that week that we had not had snow. We left Victoria Station just after lunch, and were met by Constable Valiant Henriksen off the train at Redhill. He was indeed physically unlike our friend; a massively tall man well over six foot tall, and much more muscular than his beefy uncle. His skin colour was paler than our friend's, although it still showed his Caribbean ancestry. His face was hawkish rather than his uncle's round one, and although I have little time for the pseudo-science that is phrenology, I would have to have admitted that he did look quite intelligent. And, if one was a local criminal, quite frightening!

“Thank you for coming, both of you”, he said, and his voice had the pleasant Surrey burr. “This case....”

“Your uncle mentioned a superior who was being difficult?” Sherlock said gently. The constable nodded.

“Sergeant Lane does not like me because of my skin colour”, he said. “He knows that there is a post coming up for another sergeant at Redhill, and that I may be considered, but he wants his friend Brown to get it. He only let me keep this high-profile case because he is sure that I shall fail to solve it. I fear that he may be right.”

“Then we must do our best to prove him wrong”, Sherlock said firmly. “You have managed to obtain us rooms at a local hostelry?”

“The George & Dragon, on the High Street”, he said. “Definitely the best in town, and it's on my beat. Plus the landlady Bess is one of the best-informed gossips in the area; if there's any scandal surrounding the five suspects, she will know it!”

+~+~+

The George & Dragon was, I thought, fairly decent for an old coaching inn. It was certainly clean, and our rooms, which we had briefly seen when we dropped off our bags, were pleasant enough. We easily found a quiet corner in the place, as it was not due to open for the evening for at least another hour. Constable Henriksen took out his notebook.

“I interviewed all five people again, as you asked sir, and have gathered the following facts.”

“Not necessarily facts, constable”, Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat. “Statements and opinions.”

“Very true, sir”, the constable said. “One thing that is definitely a fact is that this is the first of two events to mark the Magna Carta celebrations. As well as the tournament, there is to be a procession through town in full medieval costume. The aldermen did consider calling it off, but Mr. Nahum - the new Lord Abinger as is - asked that it go ahead, as it was what his father would have wanted.”

“Noble of him”, I said. The constable flicked a page on his notepad.

“This place was one of several inns that helped prepare food for the banquet”, he said. “Each inn had a section of the menu to supply, so what the victim ate came from several different places. The food was all either cold or pre-cooked, and taken to the Barley Mow Hotel which was next to where the banquet took place. Food that needed reheating was warmed in their kitchens, and carried to the food tent by their staff just prior to serving. There were four of them on permanent duty in the food tent, to make sure that everything was set out ready for the squires to come and collect it.”

“The meal began just before six o'clock in the evening. I have a copy of the menu, if you need it, sir. Twenty-one knights sat down to the dinner, in seven groups of three, each at their own separate tables some little way apart. The tables were numbered, so all the squires had to do was to bring in the food from the same numbered table in the food hall in the order it was presented. There were those ropes on posts things between each set of tables, so there was little to no chance of food going to the wrong one, especially with the squires feeding their own kith and kin.”

“Lord Abinger did not show any signs of illness during the meal at all?” I asked. The constable shook his head.

“No-one reported seeing any. The meal progressed as expected, and afterwards they all went out to see a torch-lit mini-tournament. After about ten minutes, Lord Abinger collapsed in agony.”

“Who reached him first?” Sherlock asked.

“Young Rawlinson, closely followed by Micah Abinger. They took his garb off to try to help him breathe – that medieval stuff is heavy – but he was pronounced dead on the way to the hospital.”

“And the food?”

“Unfortunately all the used dishes were lumped together before we could get to them”, the constable sighed. “The boys tried to identify what they thought were their plates, and they were tested first, but nothing was found. We are still doing the others, but it will take several days.”

Sherlock thought for some time.

“You say that there is to be a procession”, he said. 

“Yes, sir. Next Monday.”

“Did you keep Lord Abinger's things, or have you handed them back to his son?” Sherlock asked.

“Lord Nahum said to keep them as long as we needed”, the constable said, “and that he would sell them or give them away once we were done with them.”

Sherlock thought again.

“Doctor”, he said turning suddenly to me, “I need you to do me a small favour.”

“Of course”, I said. “Anything.”

I would like to say that I was never that utterly and completely stupid again in my entire life but, sadly, I cannot.

+~+~+

The next day was Saturday. Our rooms at the inn were comfortably warm, but the winter weather was poor, a slow lazy drizzle that seemed determined to last all day. It had certainly drenched poor Constable Henriksen, when he arrived mid-morning at the inn.

“I found the information you wanted, sir”, he said. “The telegram from Sussex just came.”

“Sussex?” I asked, puzzled. The constable nodded.

“Christ's Hospital says that they were doing Ancient Greece in history with Lord Micah's year”, he said. “And the teacher at the local grammar school looked at me as if I had lost the plot, but he eventually told me that Tague and Rawlinson were doing 1066 and the Battle of Hastings.”

I did not see the point of these revelations, but I knew that self-satisfied look in my friend's blue eyes. That had been exactly the information he wanted.

We were distracted by the arrival of the landlady Bess, who looked almost hungrily at the constable. She was a surprisingly young woman, probably no more than thirty. The constable ran a finger round his collar as she eyed him up, and blushed.

“These gentlemen are helping me with the Abinger case”, he said, a little quicker than his usual voice. “I do not suppose there is any gossip about the 'Famous Five', as they are being called in the village now?”

She gave him one last look before turning her attentions to Sherlock, and eyeing him almost as much. I felt offended at being passed over in favour of someone who looked like they had just come in out of a tornado, but she spoke before I could voice my objections.

“The word is that His Lordship was in Queer Street, and needed to sell a farm he owned jointly with Mr. Fisher”, she said. “But he refused. No argument, but Phyllis at the Dog & Duck says that Mr. Fisher was in a bad mood after the meeting.”

She gave both men a final hungry look and left. I wondered what it was about my friend that just screamed 'available', and silently wished that it would stop. And what was wrong with me that I never got that look from ladies?

Was Sherlock smirking? He was, damnation!

+~+~+

It was on Sunday that I found out exactly what my soon to be ex-friend wanted me to do.

“Hell, no!”

I folded my arms and stood my ground. I knew that we were after a murderer, but damn it, there were limits to what a man should have to put up with in this world of sorrows.

Sherlock looked beseechingly at me, and I winced. He rarely did it, but he had Sammy's kicked puppy look down to a tee. I knew that I was going to fold even whilst I was pouting.

“Why me?” I not-whined. 

“Because you and the late Lord Abinger are of similar physical appearance”, Sherlock said, “and I think that this may help jog some memories.”

Constable Henriksen had been round to the five other people at the dead man's table and explained Sherlock's request to them. The detective wanted to reconstruct the events leading up to the death, presumably, as he had said, to jog memories. Though I felt that there was more to it than that.

“I will look a complete fool!” I protested. 

“It is not as is someone is going to take lots of photographs”, he said pleadingly. “Please? For me?”

I slumped in defeat. “Fine!” I groused. “But you owe me!”

“Good”, he said. “And one little thing more.....”

Suddenly those three years without him did not see that bad after all.

+~+~+

“What I wish to do”, Sherlock explained the following day, “is to run through exactly what happened one section at a time, and see if anything was missed in your statements.”

“You suspect us of lying?” Mr. Rawlinson demanded harshly.

“Not knowingly, but there may have been things that, whilst you dismissed them as unimportant, things that may have a bearing on the case”, Sherlock said smoothly. “We will take it from the end of the meal. How did you know that the meal was over?”

“There's a bell on the Barley Mow's lawn, and they rang it to mark the start of the activities outside”, Albert Tague said. “Jake and I were just taking out the last dessert dishes.”

“You see, that is new information”, Sherlock said, sounding pleased. “My friend Doctor Watson has agreed to stand in for the late Lord Abinger, so if the three gentlemen would all stand up?”

I felt decidedly uncomfortable in a dead man's robes. I, Mr. Rawlinson and Mr. Fisher all rose.

“You left together?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, Rawlinson said.

“No we didn't”, Fisher countered. “I remember now. I left first, and I had to wait at our seats for you two.”

Sherlock looked pointedly at the constable.

“That's right”, Rawlinson agreed. “Abinger had a problem with his gloves; couldn't find the damn things anywhere. The boys were all set to look for them, but we didn't want to miss the fun, so I loaned him mine. I found them too damn heavy, so put on my regular ones that I brought with me.”

“These were the ones you loaned him?” Sherlock asked, producing a pair of gloves from a brown bag.

Rawlinson looked closer, and nodded.

“That's my shield on them”, he said. “Yes.”

“Put them on, doctor”, Sherlock said. I did, thinking of the instruction he had given me earlier, and wondering what the hell was going on. No change there, then.

“I am sorry, gentlemen”, Sherlock said, “but much as I would like to purchase you all drinks now, we must wait at least ten minutes to correctly simulate the events of that fateful day. However, once that time is up, I hope you will all allow me to treat you to whichever beverage the Barley Mow can provide for each of you.”

“That's good of you, sir”, Mr. Fisher said appreciatively. 

“We can at least think ahead”, Sherlock said. “You met up again at the benches where you were viewing the events going on in the field. It was torch-lit, so I presume that you could not see much?”

“Yes we could”, said Mr. Fisher. “It was almost a full moon, and not a cloud in the sky. We were lucky; it bucketed down barely half an hour after we were finished, and we've had snow every day since.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock smiled. “Did you discuss anything in particular?”

“Just local things”, Mr. Rawlinson said. “He was thinking of selling off a small farm out near Shalford, but that's too far for me.”

“Boys, did you sit with them?” Sherlock asked, turning to the teenagers.They all looked startled at being suddenly included in the conversation. 

“Jake and I walked over to the river”, Albert Tague said. “One of us had to remain on duty, but we arranged to swap over after half an hour.”

“So you were away at the time of Lord Abinger's collapse”, Sherlock said.

Jacob Rawlinson looked pale at the memory, but shook his head.

“We wanted to head over to one of the stalls, and passed by the benches on the way there”, he said. “Father and Mr. Fisher were stood talking about something, and Mike's dad was just sat there. He looked a bit pale, to be honest. We'd just reached him when he toppled off his bench and was writhing there.....”

“You and his son removed his uniform?” Sherlock asked.

“We thought he needed air”, Jacob Rawlinson said. “But it didn't do him any good.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, and scratched at his left ear. That was my signal. I gasped, and collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

“Quick!” Jacob Rawlinson yelled. “Get his things off!”

“No!” I heard Sherlock say. “If it is what killed Lord Abinger, then cooling the body is the worst thing you could do. No-one must remove a single item. Constable, fetch a doctor.”

The boy blatantly ignored him, because he bent down and tried to prise the gloves off my hands. As I was curled up in the foetal position this was difficult enough, but eventually he had a grip on one of them. That was the moment I suddenly uncurled and grabbed his hands with my own. He stared at me in shock.

“Bravo, doctor!” Sherlock applauded. “You have caught your first murderer!”

There was a stunned silence in the room. 

“I think, sir, that you had better explain yourself”, Mr. Rawlinson said coldly.

“Indeed I shall”, Sherlock said. “Starting with the fact that you, sir, were the intended victim in this matter.”

Mr. Rawlinson turned almost as pale as his son, who had been dragged to his feet and cuffed, and was now being held in the implacable grip of Constable Henriksen.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Rawlinson asked.

“From the start of this case”, Sherlock said, “I was struck by the fact that the only one of the squires who had any real motive to harm or kill their father was young Mr. Jacob Rawlinson. His behaviour ran the risk of disinheritance, particularly as there were younger brothers at hand. Yet it was Lord Abinger who lay dead, whilst his squire, his second son, did not appear to benefit in any significant way by his demise. Albert Tague was expected to inherit on his uncle's death, but firstly, that was not certain, and secondly, he would have inherited other money from elsewhere. The good doctor here helped me when he suggested that the wrong 'knight' may have been killed.”

I blushed at the praise.

“It all revolved about how the crime was committed, which seemed to be in the food that was eaten”, Sherlock went on. “However, once I saw the dead lord's costume, I had another idea as to the way in which it might have been done. You will remember, Constable, how I asked what the three boys were studying in history class?”

“What was that about?” I asked, dusting myself down.

“I was delighted to find that Rawlinson had been recently studying the Norman Conquest”, Sherlock said. “There is a part of that story which gave him the idea for his crime. You may remember that Duke William of Normandy had a reputation for ruthlessly disposing of his enemies? He had been afraid that, in his absence, his neighbour Duke Conan of Brittany might try to steal some of his western lands. The story goes that he averted this threat by anonymously sending his rival a pair of poisoned gloves which, foolishly, the man donned. Thus a rival was eliminated, and the invasion could go ahead.”

He looked sternly at the trembling boy in the policeman's grasp. 

“I reasoned that you would have heavily dosed the gloves with poison”, he said. “The police had them, but did not think to test them, which was the only real danger. Until you saw someone else donning them, and succumbing to the fatal poison. You may care to know, young sir, that before they were thoroughly cleaned and passed onto my friend, they were tested and found to contain enough poison to kill several people. Your own reactions gave you away.”

The youth groaned, and Constable Henriksen dragged him away. Mr. Rawlinson came up to Sherlock.

“Would he.....?”

“I have little doubt”, the detective said, “that not too far into the future and once the hue and cry had died down, you yourself would have met a tragic 'accident'.”

The man bowed his head.

“Thank you, sir”, he muttered, before leaving.

“He could have shown a little more gratitude”, I said acidly.

“The man has just seen his son and heir shown to be a murderer”, Sherlock said pointedly. “Now, doctor, I think that you had better be getting ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked, puzzled.

“For the procession, of course!”

“Hell, no!”

+~+~+

I tried to object that surely only a member of the Abinger family should represent the dead lord, but Lord Nahum had apparently heard of my role in exposing his father's killer, and had insisted that I take his place. And Sherlock just looked at me with those kicked puppy eyes of his, which was blatantly unfair. The event itself was tolerable, although the photographs afterwards – individual and then a grand collective one for the town hall – seemed to take forever.

It was not until two days after we were back in London that I found out why that photographer had wanted a second picture of me in that dreadful medieval costume, when I saw a new framed picture on Sherlock's desk. I looked closer, and stared in horror.

“Sherlock!”

+~+~+

Our next case would involve a step up the social ladder from nobility to royalty.


End file.
